Awakenings
by Amber Mutt
Summary: Warren's transformation from Angel into Archangel.
1. First Awakening

Title: Awakenings  
Rating: PG-13  
Summary: Warren´s transformation from Angel into Archangel.  
Watch before reading: Wolverine and the X-Men: Episodes 19 and 25  
Warnings: blood, disturbing images (if I wrote it well) and a character death of sorts  
Disclaimer: Characters are Marvel´s , the point of view is mine.

First Awakening

_An angel flew above the Institute grounds, sun warming his white wings all along their huge span. He beat them strongly, feeling his underused muscles stretch and let the air currents carry him higher and higher until the wind´s coolness began to sting. He looked down and saw the almost unrecognizable shapes of his friends: a motorcycle headed toward the entrance, that would be Logan; a ray of red identified Scott; and a shape disappearing calmly into the ground must have been Kitty. _

_A burst of wind threw him unexpectedly to the side. He suddenly noticed the darkened sky and the forceful gusts. Smiling rather ruefully, he dipped downward and toward the mansion as the rain began to word its way past his feathers. The burst of thunder startled him and he jerked upward and to the left and the lightning (too fast, too close, in the wrong direction) touched him and threw him down._

_He burned and struggled to stay in the air, wings twisted and buffeted couldn´t expand and the velocity wrapped them around his struggling body. He smelled the sick scent of burning feathers as they came off him and into the storm like sparks. He felt his flesh sear and his wings ripped from his body with a wet, sick crack of dislocated joints and torn ligaments. The ground pummeled toward him and the impact—_

—Warren jarred awake, a scream in his throat and the scorched smell in his nostrils. He was panicked and pale faced, and stretched his wings to reassure himself. Stretched his wings…and nothing happened. He spun in place, crumpling the sterile white sheets as he reached over his shoulder, grasping futilely. Nothing. He leapt up and choked back a sob. A wingless Angel.

His nails caught against the stitches and started ripping them out. He could heal; they would grow back if he only gave them space. It would be all right.

His frantic nails screeched against metal, lost their grip in his own slippery blood, and caught again. There was a metal plate in his back and locking his bones in place so no tissue could grow back. He stopped, Angel (no, Warren now) slid down to his knees, exhausted.

He fought to calm himself and clear his thoughts. He lifter his head, sweat dripping down into his eyes, and looked around. It was dark, the room was unfamiliar, and sterile looking, sparse, with a single door and a window. Unwilling to risk the door (and perhaps used to seeing windows as a perfectly safe alternative) he staggered across the room and looked past the curtain, down, down 8 stories to the pavement. Only a bird could leap safely from there. Or an Angel.

Warren turned away, shuddering with a fear of heights for the first time in his life. He tried the door next, falling forward as he walked. It swing open neatly to reveal a nurse with a needle, who put out his free hand toward Warren in a calming gesture.

"Relax, you're safe", his eyes widened at his patient's bloody hands and shoulders. "Your stitches..." he added faintly.

But Warren hadn't seen anything past the hypodermic. He charged the nurse, who raised an arm defensively, and saw, too late, the needle flashing into his bloody side and thought inexplicably of lightning.

—Unconscious_—_


	2. Second Awakening

Title: Awakenings.  
Disclaimer: Most characters are Marvel´s (the anesthesiologist is mine!), the point of view is mine.

Second Awakening

_A winged man walked along a cliff overhanging the sea. Evening was turning beautifully into dusk as the sun set. He smiled down to the water where the sun was reflected in multicolored sparks. Angel lifted his wings out to their full expanse and felt a salty breeze ruffle his feathers softly. He teetered oh-so-dangerously on the very edge, lifted his weight onto his toes, and then with no more force than it takes to lift a feather, went over._

_His blond hair blew back and he dove to the burning water. He was far above it, but could almost feel the drops spray across the underside of his wings and grinned delightedly in anticipation. He saw the rocky isles approaching and knew how to swoop safely around them. He could even let the rip of his wing brush the water as he turned around them._

_He waited until the very last second to make his move and change sharply the angle of his wings. He braced himself for the sudden change of direction, but nothing happened. Of course not! He didn't have wings, and never had! He'd launched himself off a cliff under the mad delusion of being a winged angel, when he was only a man, bereft of magic or flight. He flailed his arms and twisted hid body futilely, the salt blinded him, but he could feel the rocks speed toward him to crush his wingless body..._

His arms were already wrapped around his back before his eyes were even open. He fully expected to lock his hands around his wing joints, but there was nothing to grasp. His hands slid across smooth, healthy skin, no feather, no stitches, not even scars. Still half asleep, he traced back his memories. Had he ever had wings? He must be insane, people didn't have wings, did they?

He groaned with consciousness and memory. The sentinels, his father, the MRD, the hospital. Now he was at the Institute recovering. He stood, pressing his hands against his face and wishing for wings to fan the cool air against his skin. He sighed. He pulled back the curtains and slipped through the low window onto the moonlit grass not 2 feet below.

Since he´d moved in, he´d asked for a room on the ground floor, he couldn´t stand the thought of his old room with the French windows and balcony. He was terrified of heights, and it took weeks until he could walk without counterbalancing against his missing limbs.

He made his way to the pool and into it, It was temporary relief from gravity. He floated on his back and looked at the stars…so much farther away than ever before…

"Cold night to be out, kid", interrupted Logan, "What´re you doin´ out here?"

"Nothing, I just… Looking at the sky".

There was a long pause, Logan seemed to be ordering his thoughts, then: "Look, I know it´s hard on you, not…" he gestured helplessly toward Warren´s back and shoulders "but you´re not the only one who´s had their body messed with. Yeah, it´s bad, but you´ll heal."

Warren had turned to him incredulously, "Not the only one? You got metal claws, the didnt _take_ anything from you!"

"Other than memories, right?"

"But it´s not the same!"

"Damn straight it´s not! trade you my claws for knowing who I am anyday, or my arms, or my eyes... Wings if I had ´em."

Warren whispered "It´s not the same." The older man sighed.

With sudden strength, Warren pulled himself out of the pool saying "But who am I now? I can´t stay here, I´m not a mutant" He turned, backlit by the moon, he could have been any of a thousand _Homo sapiens_, "and I can´t go back. Look at me, I could be anyone".

Logan saw. Warren´s wings had been his identity, and he´d lost both at once.

He faced Warren and placed his hands on his muscled shoulders. "Listen kid, if your healing´s anything like mine, you´ll be around for a long, long time. Suicide won´t work" he added, reading his expression, "You´d better get used to te body you have, ´cuz nothin´ will change it permanently, now".

Warren didn´t meet his eyes, but nodded. Wolverine gave his shoulders one last squeeze, and returned to the mansion. He was right, nothing could change him permanently, and in the hospital someone had made him an interesting offer. Mr. Sinister, the geneticist, could give him his wings back.

He had originally rejected the proposition out-of-hand, but as he walked (_walked_) to his room, across the small field by the pool, he reconsidered. Climbing through the window and into his bed, he realized the choice was already made. He would risk anything to fly again.

...............................o.....................................o.......................................o.....................................o....................................o..................................o.......

He was strapped upright to a metal frame, medical instruments glinted in the bright light around him. He tried to make a fist, but his numbing arm refused to respond; the IV drip did its work. A person in a white coat and mask approached, maybe the doctor, but indistinguishable from the assistants.

"You won´t feel anything" It was a woman´s voice, the anesthesiologist placed the mask on his face and checked the straps. He heard a hiss as the anesthesia flowed into the mask, and recalled that it had never worked on Logan. A slow trickle of cyanide seeped into his bloodstream to take him just past the edge of death and fought his healing factor to keep him there throughout the operation. He was choking, drowning in the roar of blood in his head like waves crashing overwhelmingly on rocks.

* * *

Author´s Note: A word on the anesthesia and cyanide. It's been mentioned Logan doesn't respond to anesthesia, supposedly because of his healing factor, so Warren shouldn't either. The idea is that a slow flow of cyanide will first kill him, then counteract his healing just enough to keep him dead, but not cause unnecessary damage to his body. Once the flow stops, he heals, revives and regains consciousness. Was that clear?

How´re the dream sequences working out? Advice on dialogue?


	3. Third Last Awakening

Third (_Last)_ Awakening

_ He was walking despite his wings, with a heavy backpack strapped to his shoulders. The people he walked past didn´t so much as glance at him, and he was glad for that. He bumped into a woman accidentally and turned to apologize in the hopes that it wouldn´t turn into another confrontation. She had kept walking, however, and hadn't even seen him. Angel sighed in relief._

_ He realized he was walking past less and less buildings, the roads were quiet. He started to cut through a park, and halfway through decided to stop and rest; he was nearly there anyway, a few more minutes wouldn't matter. He sat on a bench, half in the sun and half in the shade, and looked around. The sound of many children's voices reached his ears as he turned to unstrap his backpack; it was weighing down on his wings. A group of them appeared, and their parents; he smiled at them, trying to look as angelic as possible. He needn't have worried, no one had seemed to see him._

_ He struggled with the metal straps, his wings were sore and nearly impossible to lift. The children laughed and played around him. He finally freed his wings, they stretched compulsively, still heavy. He tried to stand but their weight held him down, they were bound in chains. He got to his feet, stumbled and fell. His wings jerked uncontrollably, and to his horror, struck a child, chains ripping skin and breaking bones. Around him, the others continued playing. His thrashing wings dragged his unwilling body, wreaking bloody havoc amongst the unresponsive people._

Warren Worthington (III) broke into consciousness suddenly, if rather feebly. His thoughts, for the moment, didn't go beyond the state of his body. He felt nauseated and feverish, and at a vague attempt at movement, he gagged. He vomited over the side of the metal bed and lay there shivering in his cold sweat. He wrapped his arms around himself miserably.

Minutes later, he forced his reluctant mind to face his surroundings. He was in a small room, on a steel bed, and a beeping machine marked his heartbeat. He tried to raise himself, but his muscles ignored him; he must still be anesthetized. He concentrated on his back, unable to move, he could still feel his nerve endings extend all the way to his wingtips. They seemed to be heavier than usual, but he attributed that to his current weakness. He gave a silent thank-you and settled down to wait for control to return.

Incalculable time later (_seconds, days_) he heard the grind of door hinges. Warren tried to react, and his body remained stubbornly limp. He tried to cry out to Mr. Sinister, worried about his persistent paralysis, but he was speechless and the geneticist circled him to inspect his wings. There was the scrape of metal on metal and he felt his feathers ruffle, even they felt heavy.

The geneticist circled back into his sight. He was smiling as his gloved hands detached tubes and electrodes from Warren's body, who hadn't noticed them. Mr. Sinister stepped back to admire his patient, dropping the medical attachments carelessly to the floor.

"Stand, Archangel", Warren tried to protest, Angel, not Archangel, but his body disobeyed him yet again. It stood up, instead.

He nearly fell. His wings were _much_ heavier than he recalled. on his feet, he got a better look of himself. Out of the bottom of his eyes (his head faced straight ahead, only Mr. Sinister was in focus) he saw an unfamiliar blue and white uniform. There was also something weighing down uncomfortably on his forehead, blue, if it matched the things weighing down on his arms.

"Let me see your wings". They spread, with the same sound of metal on metal as before. As the shock of having his wings back wore off, Warren realized that none of his actions had been conscious. He struggled to move something, anything. He couldn't so much as blink.

The doctor beckoned him and walked out of the room; Archangel followed and Warren Worthington (III) was dragged unwillingly; he tried to stop, turn, finally go limp and realized that he already was. Unfortunately, his body was no longer part of him. The body followed meekly, the mind cursed a blue streak at Mr. Sinister and his own stupid naïvety at going under the knife.

They entered a room, about a third was partitioned by a glass wall. There was a chair and screens, with a good view of the rest of the room. The bigger area smelled of disinfectant with a metallic, bloody undertone; with cameras in the corners, weapons mounted on the walls.

"Stay there". Mr. Sinister slipped into the glass booth, leaving Archangel standing in the middle of the larger area. There was a click and the momentary shrill of interference from hidden speakers before the voice could be heard clearly.

"Fight for me, my Archangel".

Another door slid open in tandem with his wings. A man stepped out. Then he stepped out again. Then 5 more, then 10; the same man challenged his from all around the room. They (he?) surrounded him, pacing, moving constantly, Warren couldn't tell one from the next.

One struck his lower back, Archangel spun, wings flexing and snapping forward against the man. Warren confirmed what he suspected, wings of metal, not flesh. As the fallen man writhed, the rest swarmed him. He fell to the floor, but his wings darting with fatal precision cleared his way almost immediately.

Warren couldn't keep thinking of them as wings, they were weapons, sharp, finely arrayed blades faster and far more accurate than any conscious order could manage sliced through his attackers faster than they could regenerate.

The fallen bodies faded, and one man remained, backpedaling warily. Warren reeled; no, killing a man was beyond him, and felt the wings tense and screamed soundlessly, unable to stop or look away. The blood arched slowly, gracefully through the air, over and over with the beating wings. The man's body hit the ground with a beautiful thud, and tore Warren's mind from its last fragile moorings. Warren couldn't see, feel, hear, he careened hallucinatingly in complete disconnect from the world.

All that was left in the room, still beating the dead body, was Archangel.

* * *

AN. How are the dream sequences and dialogue? The transformation from healer to killer was too much for him. The mutant who attacked him, making clones, is Jamie Madrox (creatively called Multiple Man, I kid you not) from Wolverine and the X-Men, he acts as Mr. Sinister's guard (he kind of appears in X-Men Evolution as well, but as one of the good guys and far more likeable). That´s episode 12, "eXcessive Force". Also, nearly identical people moving around and becoming indistinguishable: zebras do that to confuse their predators, having stripes helps.


End file.
